ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

My father was part of the Scots infantry that cleared mines by hand, as described by Peter and Dan Snow in their documentary on ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½2 last year. Working in groups of threes, his two companions were blown up and killed, while he was wounded. He suffered from depression for the rest of his life. He signed up twice to enter the war, served 7 years (to 1946),and had several close encounters with death. My poem below describes his experiences of his experiences and the lasting effects of clearing the mines.

Mind Work (October 23rd 1942) by Don McLaren

I volunteered not once, but twice
to come to this forsaken land
And how I could murder a scotch, no ice
As I crawl on my belly across the sand
Two corridors clear, to breach the lines
They want no blood of English shed
But some poor souls will clear the mines
Sacrifice Scots and Aussies instead
The ‘Devil’s Garden’ is thickly sown
We pluck each seed to save our brother
A wounded sapper emits a moan
As this bitter harvest reaps another
Oh to walk upon Westminster Bridge
As I crawl my way to Mitelriya Ridge

And all they gave me was a long stick

To prod and probe
expose a glimmering edge
lit by October moon
Their star shells burst behind
Our mortars burst ahead
As one thousand heavy bombs rained down
upon the enemy

And all they gave me was a long stick

In lines of threes
on hands and knees
bitter cold and yet
I shake and sweat
Hot sand stinging
Shell shot singing
as kilted khaki trawl the fourteen miles

And all they gave me was a long stick

The bang was loud
the end was swift
scorched corpse thudding
on shifting sands
deaf ears ringing
shell shot singing
as I cried for something to kill the pain

and all they gave me was a short stick.

He tipped the scale and jugglers three
Were tossed like coins to a beggar’s pot
Here I sit, but there lies he
A long and short stick mark the spot
Red leaves carpet the forest floor
Sullen smoke rolls like autumn mist
The desert sands run rich with gore
on young men’s lips that lie unkissed
Empty jackets floating in a crimson stream
Buttons glisten in the harvest moon
I hear the echo of a distant scream
See hollow faces in a desert dune
God guide me through this battlefield of fears
The sands of time are caked with blood and tears.

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